


The Watcher and the Watched

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU for their travels together, AU from where he kidnaps her to where their ways part, Accidental Voyeurism, Arya's age is not specified, Blood and Gore, But assume she's at least sixteen and the timeline got jostled a little, Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Sex, Slow Build, canon compliant underage, ish, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Arya and Sandor travel from place to place, him trying to get rid of her and her trying to get away from him. Along the road, they both learn things about each other and Arya finds out why men say there is nothing like a fuck after a kill.





	The Watcher and the Watched

**Author's Note:**

> My absence has been long, and the night has been dark and full of terrors.
> 
> I have basically been suffering some serious writers block - I have started and hit a wall with about ten (yes, ten) stories since November. None of them have been finished. This was essentially written as an exercise to check I hadn't lost all ability to finish something but now it's done, I actually quite like it, so I have posted it for your delectation and delight. 
> 
> PLEASE LEAVE ME KUDOS AND COMMENTS. I need the feedback to break this wall down, and to get my story mojo back. Feedback, even if a long list of everything I did wrong, is so needed and so valued. Thank you all :)
> 
> Also, this is NOT a Winterfell Reunions-compliant story. It is a standalone.

_She would have happily sworn in front of every Septon in the land that she had not meant to disturb him. She would have placed her hand on any altar of the New Gods they chose and sworn blind she had not intended to see him. She would have knelt in front of a Heart Tree and sworn to every nameless Old God that she had not gone looking for him._

 

They'd become very good at giving each other privacy while staying in earshot. They'd become excellent at it in fact, becoming deaf to the sounds of the other pissing or digging a discreet little hole to shit in and becoming remarkably blind when there was little or no cover. It was easier for him in those situation - he just had to turn his back and there was enough of him to hide anything unsavoury. In fact, the only time they'd ever acknowledged that the other even had bodily functions was when she had flowered for the first time. He'd caught her with a knife, about to go at her linen under-shirt - because she didn't have any spares and she needed something - and asked what she was doing. She'd refused to tell him but before she could start slicing, a huge shirt had come sailing at her.

_"Use that," he grunted. "It's cleaner than that filthy thing and you need 'em clean."_

 

She'd been too humiliated right then to say even a thank you and he hadn't said a word either. But later that day, with her belly cramping like she had the shits and the pain, he'd felt her tensing in front of him on the horse because of course he did and after the third or fourth ripple of tension while she clenched up everything along with her insides, his hand had started rubbing her lower back during those moments of tension. And, weirdly, it had helped.

 

After that, no more was said. She learnt to grit her teeth but sometimes couldn't help tensing and always, his warm hand would come down and he never asked why she was sometimes gone a little longer those days.

 

So yes, they were well used to privacy and giving each other that privacy. So when she'd woken up that morning and he wasn't there but all of his things were - at least she knew he hadn't done a bunk - she just assumed he was off having a piss. She needed one herself, come to that. She got up, therefore, found herself a little place where she could squat behind the bushes and be mostly unseen if he came back but still private - and critically, where she would be able to keep a watchful eye on the horse and his pack. He'd flay her alive if someone stole their resources while she was off pissing.

 

He came stumping back before she was done, because even after all this time she had to take her breeches off to piss if there wasn't a decent branch she could sit on and it all involved so much fumbling. There was some dark muttering about her disappearing off, but he slumped down against the tree they'd tied the horse to and simply sat there, his arms folded. She'd stick up a hand and wave, just to let him know she hadn't gone too far, but she was fairly sick of his bitching so she didn't, just got on with her business as quiet as she could.

 

But then she wished she had yelled out or said something or stuck up a hand and waved - or seven hells, even jumping up with her breeches off would have been better. Gods she wished she had. Because after a few seconds of him sitting there, and her not signalling her presence, he started doing something that she frankly found in equal parts _terrifying_ and _weird_ and _fascinating_. He looked around one more time, obviously completely overlooked her again - and really, shouldn't he be better than that - and his hand went to the laces on his breeches. She thought at first that he planned to have a piss and she was kind of confused because surely that's where he'd been but no, because he was still sat there and - and he looked _different_.

 

She'd spent so long on the run with men, and only men, that she'd probably seen more cock than a whore at this point - or so she liked to think - but she hadn't ever seen one that looked like that. Gendry and Hot Pie and Yoren and all the others, their cocks weren't standing up like that. They'd been more like - well, like little mice really, soft-looking and a bit weird. She'd not seen what all the fuss was about - she'd said as much to Gendry once, _and_ said they just looked like little ugly things. Gendry had looked like he wanted to wallop her for a second before he'd just laughed at her and said _that's because you don't know what they're for, what they can do._ She'd scoffed at him, said she did so know what they were for.

 

And she did know - the rudiments, anyway. They all talked about it enough, about sticking it to girls and fucking and other vulgarities that would have made Sansa shriek in horror and her mother go all tight-lipped and her father look disapproving. And she didn't much care really, she'd just shrugged it all off and learnt to ignore it. But Sandor's cock looked _angry_ , not soft at all and she couldn't stop watching although she knew she should and she knew she absolutely definitely should let him know she was _right fucking here!_ and she didn't say a word and she felt like she'd frozen solid in place. He had his hand wrapped round it and even then there seemed to be a lot of it visible even above his hand and _seven-hells-how-the-fuck-would-it-fit_ and he was kind of jerking at it with what looked like pain on his face - except it wasn't pain, no, it was far, far more intense than pain and suddenly she didn't _want_ to look away. He was panting, she could tell from the way his chest moved and his mouth hung open although she was too far away to hear it. His hand was getting faster, his other hand was clutching the ground or a tree root she didn't know, and he was tossing his head back and there was something shining on his fingers and his mouth was open in what looked like a roar without the sound and she damn near fell over.

 

Her heart was whipping inside her ribs like it was trying to jump out and she could feel a weird heat in her belly and she kept on watching while he wiped his hand on the mossy ground and tucked himself away - and it didn't look so different anymore, it looked more like the others - and she realised she had lingered too long. Her thighs had cramped so viciously, she had to shuffle backwards so she could plant her bare arse on the ground and stretch her legs out for a minute before she pulled her smallclothes and her breeches back on.

 

She made damn sure to stand up with her back to him so he'd think she'd always been facing that way. She accepted the grumbling about her facing the wrong way - _how do you plan to watch the horse facing the other way, wolf girl?_ \- because the unscarred side of his face was an interesting shade of red. They struck camp and moved off and she sat on the horse in front of him like she always did - but this time it felt different.

 

That was the first time she watched.

 

The second time, she watched him from behind a rock. She'd gone to change her rags that time, he'd said they'd stop to eat too so she found a decent sized rock a few metres away that had a little stream bubbling behind it. And when she'd stood up to come back, rags all washed out and a fresh one in place, she'd dropped back behind the rock very quickly. He was side on this time, standing this time, one hand braced against a little sapling. The other hand was between his legs and his head was dropped forward. It looked less urgent this time, more calm somehow. She'd found herself squeezing her thighs together while she watched him, found that that weird heat had come back. When he finished, she actually saw something kind of burst out and it looked like little drops almost as they disappeared onto the tree or the ground. He'd been making little noises, she'd heard a couple of them - grunting sounds. She was fascinated. She was intrigued. She was frightened half to death - because he'd be livid if he realised she'd been watching. She had enough sense to know it was a bloody private thing she'd been spying on. She had enough sense to know that if he knew, he'd strangle her. When they were back on the horse and the cramping kicked off again, the warmth of his hand on her back didn't do shit, because all it seemed to do was make her tenser. He'd obviously picked up on it though because after a few, he'd done more than touch her back. He'd used the other hand, pushed up her jerkin and her shirt and put it directly on her belly. She'd seized his wrist in her tightest grip.

                "The fuck do you think you're doing?" she'd hissed.

                "Helping you," he'd growled back. "All your fucking tensing is getting fucking irritating." And his hand had massaged her belly and she hadn't made a single noise of complaint.

 

The third time had been slightly less innocent than an accident. They'd stopped the night in some abandoned cottage, a roof over their heads protecting them from a brutal rainstorm. And in the morning, she'd watched through a window as he spread his legs on an old tree stump and worked his hand furiously on his cock. It was soundless once again and he looked angry while he did it. She'd briefly wondered if he wanted her to be watching, before she realised he was doing it behind the house and she'd had to basically check every window to find him - although she told herself very firmly that she'd just wanted to see where he was - so he was trying to hide it. His hand was pumping away and she could see a lot more today. She could see his balls too and she caught herself wondering how they might feel. Her hand was at her groin before she even really noticed, she pressed the heel against herself and found it felt good. She'd repeated it but it felt too much like she was about to burst so she'd snatched her hand away and squirmed on the spot while she tried to calm down and control herself a bit.

 

He had good cause for the looks he gave her throughout that day as she squirmed around. On the horse, he'd grabbed her by the waist and demanded that she stop that godsdamned wriggling and she had noticed that there was something firm in his breeches and had blushed like Sansa when she'd realised what it was. She'd kept still but that night, once he was snoring away on the other side of the fire, she had once more tried touching herself, this time with her hand down the front of her breeches. The burn came back, she felt like she was hovering on some indefinable edge and perhaps she was going mad because no matter what she did it felt like she was just there but nothing was happening, that edge remained just out of reach and she was squirming like mad and –

                "The fuck are you doing?" She snatched her hand away and fisted a handful of dirt to try and ground herself. She didn't dare turn around.

                "Nothing," she snapped. He grunted.

                "Then stop fucking wriggling. A man needs to sleep if the little lady wants to get back to her family." She hadn't moved all night, she'd slept terribly. Not even saying the names had helped.

 

And then it had gone to hell.

 

They'd made it to the Twins, she'd seen them shoot Grey Wind dead and he'd bashed her on the head to get her away. She'd woken up on the horse, curled against him and she'd seen what they'd done to Robb. He'd ridden away, although she'd screamed at him to let her go back. She would have gone in there unarmed, anything to avenge her brother, her brother whom they had made open mock of. He'd finally grabbed her by the neck and shaken her so violently her teeth had rattled in her head.

                "You go into that hell, they will rape you. They will fuck your holes - all of them - until you're torn apart. When they're done, assuming you live, they'll spit you on a sword and parade you round like another fucking trophy. Then they'll send your body to your pretty sister so she knows too."

                "I don't care! Let me go!"

                "Girl," he snarled. And she'd dropped her head onto his chest and shed silent, furious tears.

 

She hadn't said a word for days.

 

She'd just got on with their weird little life together - pissing behind hedges or rocks, sleeping on the ground, washing if they came across a convenient river. It was during one such stop that she first thought that _he_ might be watching _her_. She'd stripped naked, not even really considering where he was. The river had been icy cold and the shock of the chill had wrung a gasp from her. She's scrubbed her arms with sand from the river's banks, sloughing away days and days of filth and sweat with each handful. When she was done, her skin tingled and there were lingering red patches but she felt clean. Cleaner than she had in months. She'd almost forgotten how pale she was. When she'd stood up to wade back to the bank, a shadow had shifted at the edge of the trees. And she hadn't sat back down. She'd just stood there, splashing water and pretending to wash, up to her waist in water. Her tits were coming in anyway, small round mounds on her chest she kept meaning to bind down because who knew, it might make her safer. But somehow she never did and there they were and he would be able to see them. She was almost sure it was him - the shadow was too big to be anything else. And when she took a step closer to the bank, and another, fully emerging now, she could have sworn she heard a grunt before the sound of twigs snapping and a shifting shadow told her he had walked away.

 

They'd never talked about that either.

 

She should have known he'd catch her eventually. And he did, when he hadn't even bothered going anywhere, because she'd been asleep. But she'd opened her eyes to see him fisting his cock, lying on his back and gritting his teeth while he stared up at the open sky. She'd lain quiet, but when he finished, he rolled his head to the side. Their eyes had locked, her wide-open eyes flicking between his hand - still wrapped around himself and damn, but it looked bigger closer up - and his shocked face while she bit her lip and squeezed her legs together. He hadn't stopped when he saw her undeniably awake, she'd expected him to stop right away, maybe swear at her. Maybe he _couldn't_ stop though, perhaps he was just too near. But either way his hand faltered for a moment before he kept right on going, staring right at her all the time, eyes locked and staring right at each other. And they hadn't said a single word about that either, once he was done and scarlet with something she couldn't name. Shame, but it looked too soft for that. Anger, but it didn't look sharp enough for that. Perhaps it was just passion, that great nameless mess of an emotion that seemed to capture all manner of feelings. He just stamped off into the bushes, she struck camp, and by the time he was back - a normal colour - they were ready to go. He made her sit differently this time, made her sit astride with him, her back to his chest. Maybe he didn't want to have to look at her. Maybe he didn't want her to be able to look at him.

 

That was the day they found the Lannister soldiers. They'd bragged, he'd said how he had to force a needle under he dead brother's collarbones to get Grey Wind's head attached. And then a red mist covered her eyes and she found his knife in her hand like it belonged and the next thing she knew her hands were dripping with gore and blood and the soldier was dead at her feet and the Hound had killed the others.

                "Where did you get the knife?" his rough voice demanded, even as she stared at the body at her feet.

                "From you." He'd snatched it back, said something like _warn me next time_ but she'd barely heard because there was a buzzing in her ears. The coin was shining on the ground. _Valar morghulis._ Maybe she'd said it out loud but she couldn't be sure. Her hands were crimson red.

 

When she'd washed them in the river, she'd watched the blood stain the water red before it flowed away. He'd watched her do it, watched her sit so still for so long. And, most uncharacteristically, he didn't say a damn word. That night, with her eyes wide open and watching the fire flicker, she remembered something she'd heard one of the recruits say in response to Yoren on the road.   
_"Nothing like a fuck after a kill."_

_"Well there's none of that at Castle Black so you'll have to get your fucking done before you swear."_

Why it worked, she didn't know. He was snoring like a rockslide in a mountain pass, and she glowered at him for a minute. He certainly hadn't shown any signs of wanting to fuck even his own hand, let alone a woman - not that there were any women. And he'd killed two of them, to her one. She'd just been focussed on the one who'd described her dead brother's violation. All she wanted was him dead, to have him die like Robb had died - baffled and afraid and probably hurting. And the broken fragments of her heart felt slightly less sharp when his blood had washed over her hands and she'd heard him gurgle and gasp for breath. And it had been glorious.

 

She shook him awake.

                "Does it always feel like that?"

                "You silly cunt, go to fucking sleep."

                "I can't. Does it always feel like that?"

                "Does what feel like what?"

                "Killing. Does it always feel - good." Good didn't even describe it but it was the best she could scrape up.

                "Fuck me girl," he groaned, rolling onto his back. "You're telling me you never killed a man?"

                "Not intentionally before." He didn't question that. "I heard him talking and this mist came down and then the next thing I knew his blood was on my hands and I was listening to him choking on his own blood and it felt so _right_. Like this was what I should be doing to the bastard who did that to my brother and I wanted to feel his blood on my face, on my skin, I wanted to be bathing in it, dye my skin red and -" He cut her off by slapping a big hand over her mouth.

                "Breathe." She inhaled sharply over his hand, still covering her mouth. "Listen to me, girl. There's something primal about killing and this whole world was built by killers. It's why the world endures. We fight, we fuck, we kill. It doesn't always feel good but it always feels good when the fucker you kill deserves to die. And that cunt you stabbed eight times in the throat deserved to die." His hand slipped off her mouth. She fell back from him a little, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her now clean hands together.

                "I almost wish I hadn't washed them," she whispered, half to herself. "I liked the feel of it. I didn't know blood was warm."

                "Go to sleep," he repeated. "You'll forget." She went back to her own bedroll before she spoke again.

                "No I won't. I won't ever forget how it felt."

 

The next morning she woke up with that heat back between her legs and in her belly and she thrust a hand down into her breeches, under even her smallclothes. She found herself already wet, so wet that she pulled her hand back out to see if she was bleeding but there was no blood on her hands, just something that made her fingers shine a little in the thin grey dawn. He was still snoring but she didn't give a bloody rat's arse if he was awake or not, she needed this, she could swear to the Gods that she was going to fucking _explode_ , explode if she didn't work out what she had to do to make this feeling go the hell away.

 

She completely forgot his presence very quickly, the camp could have been overrun by wolves and she wouldn't have given a damn. Everything around her just ceased to be while she chased that edge that was just out of reach. She chased it so long and so hard that she was nearly sobbing with frustration when she took her hand away from her cunt, because gods fucking damn it all she couldn't get there. She didn't even really know where she was trying to go, only that she was fairly sure she'd know it when she got to it - if she ever did.

                "You didn't finish," his voice growled. She turned her head to him. His eyes were wide open and obviously had been for a while - and she found she just did not care. All she wanted was to finish as he put it, to find that edge and jump over it.

                "I _can't_ ,” she said, her voice hoarse. "I don't know - I can't!"

                "For fuck's sake -"

                "Either help me or shut the fuck up!" she screamed. The world juddered around her as his face ran from shock to baffled doubt.

                "You -"

                "Tell me I don't mean it and I'll kill you, I swear to the Gods I will kill you," she growled. "Please, or I'll go mad."

 

He didn't move for so long she was about to get up and storm away. But suddenly he was up, he shuffled to her on his knees, his big hands reaching for her waistband. He looked - desperate. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him.

                "If you want me to stop -"

                "Please," she just said. He dragged her breeches off, dragged away her smallclothes, spread her shaking thighs apart.

                "Gods save me," he muttered. But whatever he wanted saving from, it apparently wasn't her. He was kneeling there, bending forward. He put one of her legs onto his shoulder, pushed the other to the side before he bent his head and buried his face between her thighs. His tongue, his lips, his grip on her thighs. Oh Gods, she was burning up. She was about to burst into flames in his arms because she had no idea what he was doing but it felt so very, very good. She pressed herself forward, squirmed until the hand on the leg that rested on her shoulder went to her belly and pressed warningly. He pressed a finger into her and white lights started dancing behind her eyes. She thought she might have screamed and he just kept going, thrusting now, while his tongue focused on a point that was making her see fucking stars. Oh Gods, it hadn't felt anything like this when she'd done it.

 

And then he curled his finger inside her and she _wailed_ , because everything had gone bright white and she could feel a snap as something released and everything went tight as she fell over that edge like a rag doll off a cliff. She was gasping, gasping for breath until a weight settled on her belly and she craned her head up to see his head resting on her belly. She put a hand to his hair, just resting it there while she came back to the clearing they'd camped in. He didn't move away from her touch, although she'd half expected him to, had half-expected him to do the job and then immediately storm away.

 

But he didn't stay with her, as soon as she wasn't gasping for air he moved away, threw her clothes at her and stormed into the trees. Every single line of his posture told her he wanted to be alone - she didn't need the snarled promise of bodily harm if she dared to follow him. She dressed herself with trembling fingers, her legs like water underneath her. She didn't know what that was, didn't know what the hell he'd done - or where he'd learnt to do it - but dear Gods, she had adored it. She had to wonder if he'd ever agree to do it again. She finished dressing, shoved her stupid hair out of her eyes and struck their camp.

 

She rode astride again that day.

 

There was something savage about him when he touched himself. She was behind a tree, watching him in their camp. He was sat back against a tree again, his strokes furious, his eyes squeezed shut. She wondered what he thought about, if he thought about that day when he'd ripped her into quivering pieces and acted like it had never happened. His temper seemed to be getting shorter too. He called her _wolf bitch_ and _dumb bitch_ and _stupid cunt_ much more frequently. She found it fun to aggravate him, to rile him up to rage and then press back into him on the horse until he was growling at her. She loved his anger. It made her feel alive even as they travelled on and on. They reached an inn, she saw that bastard with her godsdamned sword in his belt and the red mist came back. They went inside because she forced the issue and he said it. _I've had better._

 

She killed Polliver that day, stuck Needle into his throat as he lay terrified at her feet. That night they got a proper bed too, some abandoned cottage with everything still in it. She'd taken the bed, told him she was sleeping in it and he was welcome to join her. They'd both stripped down, him to shirt and breeches, her to shirt and smallclothes - and sleeping beside him somehow felt right. And somehow, while they had slept, the gap between them both had closed and she woke up with his hardness pressing into her backside and his arm thrown over her. He was still sleeping even as she turned cautiously in his arms to look at him.

 

He looked younger when he slept, his glare smoothed out and mouth less sullen. She pressed herself a little closer, brought her leg up to rest along his thigh and his cock made contact with her cloth-covered cunt. The shock was pure pleasure but as he stirred slightly, she closed her eyes to feign sleep. She felt his hand take ahold of her hip and she knew at once she didn't want him to move away. Her eyes opened and she looked up to find him looking down at her with anger and lust warring in his eyes. Without really knowing why, she took the hand he still gripped her hip with and moved it up her shit, smoothing across her belly until it held her breast. She licked her lips as his fingers spasmed around it before he tightened his hold ever so slightly.

                "Did killing him feel good too?" he asked roughly.

                "Like I was flying," she answered honestly. "Touch me."

                "I am."

                "Sandor," she said and his eyes squeezed closed when she said his name.

                "Say it again," he growled. "Tell me you want me."

                "Sandor," she said again. "Sandor, touch me. I want you to touch me. And - and I want to touch you."

                "Gods, girl -" He ripped his hand away from her like she was Beric's flaming sword, rolled onto his back with an arm thrown over his eyes. She went with him, her hands bracing on his chest as she straddled his hips and felt his hardness there again, right there. That got his full attention back on her. Without breaking eye-contact, she pulled her shirt over her head, tossed it onto the floor beside them. "You're playing with something you don't understand girl," he snarled.

                "I've been travelling around this country with men, Sandor. They thought I was a boy for a decent amount of it. Believe me I understand what I'm playing with." His hands went to her hips but he didn't know take hold of her, just rested them. It was like he was afraid of breaking her. Just to test it, she ground down into him. It sparked hot pleasure in her and he groaned aloud, taking hold of her hips now. She thought she might bruise and something in that excited her. She did it again and he jerked under her.

                "You've got no idea, girl," he spat, but his words contrasted by the way he was now controlling her movements, dragging her back and forth over him.

                "Arya, Sandor," she reminded him. "My name is Arya."

 

He threw her off him, but before he could question him or yell at him, he was moving too, moving to her, she was spreading her legs by pure instinct so he could settle his weight between them, settle his weight on top of her. Her hands went down to the hem of his shirt, she tugged it off him before he really could do anything and they were both bare-chested and she could see each and every inch of his torso, littered with the scars of a man who'd spent his life fighting. Her hands went to the worst of them, a raised white line on his shoulder, a scar that seemed to bite deep.

                "Blackwater," he intoned. Her fingers moved to one running along his left pectoral. "Jousts. Most of them are jousts or tourneys."

                "Battles too. I saw you fight your brother that day, when he was about to kill that long-haired knight." He frowned at that.

                "Didn't see you that day."

                "I was hiding with the Smallfolk. It was more fun than sitting in the stands." He sighed.

                "We can't do this."

                "Yes we can," she said.

                "You're a lady." She snorted.

                "I'm no more a lady than you are a knight and I want this. Sandor - killing him felt better than killing that bastard Lannister man. Polliver was always on my list. I was always going to kill him for what he did to Lommy. And when the blood came pouring out of his mouth and I heard him try to breathe past all the blood in his throat, I wanted you right there. I would have let you fuck me on the ground beside his corpse, if you'd thrown me down into the blood and the dirt I would have let you." His breath stuttered.

                "Something's wrong in that head of yours, gi - Arya." Her name on his lips sounded like a prayer.

                "You said it yourself. We fight, we fuck, we kill. It's why the world endures. So fuck me." He snorted.

                "I doubt you'd be able to take it."

                "I've seen your cock, Sandor. It's not that big." That was a complete lie, but it had the desired effect.

                "Oh Arya. You have no idea." He pushed himself off her, rolling onto his back as he fumbled with the lacing at his breeches. She knelt, knocked his hands away and did it herself, yanking them down his hips. His nakedness gave her a thrill of power, she felt like she was now in full control. He was hard, ready, and when she stretched out a hand and laid it flat on his chest he twitched. She explored him slowly, the flat of her palm skating along the planes of his chest and stomach. He was firm, she realised, all hard muscle and bunched tendons and knots in his shoulders the size of apples. No wonder he was so angry all the time. Touching him reminded her that the man spread out in front of her was a murdering, vicious man, with absolutely no conscious to speak of. He'd killed Mycah. And suddenly she knew why - orders. He didn't think then, he just did. She supposed there was something freeing in that. But he'd walked away hadn't he, walked out of the Battle of the Blackwater shouting fuck the King and just left. Her hand was dragging lower, into the coarse hairs at his groin. And then she touched him and his hips jerked under her touch and she felt _powerful_.

 

It felt warm under her fingers, the soft of his skin a contrast to the steel under the surface. She could get both hands around him and still some of it showed above her grip. She couldn't stop staring at it. Her hands were so small it looked borderline ridiculous. He was staring at the ceiling she noticed, looking anywhere but at her. Well, that wouldn't do. She took his hand, placed it over her own on his cock. That got his attention.

                "Show me," she demanded. "Show me what to do." He took a little hitched breath before he did as she said, gliding her hand up and down his cock until she got the idea and kept going on her own. And now he didn't need to, he wasn't looking at her again, so she stopped, took her hands away and stopped, heard his groan and revelled in it.

                "I can finish if you've come to your senses." Well, that hadn't been her intention at all, so she yanked off her smallclothes in one angry snatch and straddled him again, her bare cunt flush on his cock and this time she was the one to jerk a little as hot fiery pleasure ran through her. He gasped, she felt her mouth drop open before she realised why she'd done this in the first place. She could feel how wet she was, and she dragged herself over him gently.

                "Come to my senses?" she gasped out. "Why would I do that?"

                "Because I'm a big ugly bastard -" She interrupted him by smacking him across the face with all her strength behind it. His head snapped sidewise, her hand stung like all hell but it got his attention. When he came back to look at her, he looked _furious_.

                "Self-pity doesn't suit you," she ground out, taking his jaw in her fingers and keeping his eyes on her even as she kept on and on grinding her cunt against him. "Think I give a fuck about scars? Think I give a damn about your face? You're _wrong_ , Sandor, I don't give a _shit_ about it."

                "Arya," he choked, and she did it on impulse. She pushed his hair off his face and laid the flat of her hand on his scars.

                "I don't care," she repeated.

 

It seemed to convince him because he took hold of her again, dragging her up his body and placing her square over his mouth. She was about to ask what he was doing when he pulled her down to his mouth and repeated his once-before actions. She gasped, grabbing the rough stones of the wall to ground herself. His hands were spread over her thighs, holding her in place so firmly she couldn't buck her hips - probably for the best because if she did in this position she'd probably break his nose.

 

It seemed to sweep over her like a huge wave, starting at her head and burning through her. She dropped her head forward, dropped a hand to his hair to seize a handful while she screamed aloud. His eyes never left her face and all it did was extend it and drag it out because suddenly she was trapped. She couldn't stop staring at him.

 

It took her a moment to realise she should probably get off him and when she did, she realised his beard was wet. She had done that, he had done that to her, reduced her to a shaking wreck. On an impulse, she kissed him. He tasted sweet and she felt a blush start as she realised it was her own juices she tasted. His hands tangled in his hair.

"We don't need to do anything else," he said roughly.

"I want to," she insisted, and she did, Gods she did.

 

He rolled her again, putting her on her back and staring at her.

                "Tell me not to do this," he said, and Gods save her because it sounded like he was _begging_. She shook her head slowly.

                "Sandor." She spread her legs under him, opening up to him. He groaned.

                "Stop me, stop me if it hurts."

 

He pressed forward, she felt him and immediately she regretted trying to be smart about his cock because she thought it might break her. She felt so staggeringly _full_ \- and he was still pressing forward and suddenly there _was_ pain. She gasped, he stopped, and for a split second she was staring into his eyes and drowning. She moved her legs cautiously, found that if she hooked her ankles behind his back it eased the feeling. She urged him forward with her legs, spoke when he still held tense above her.

                "I'm fine," she whispered, her voice a little ragged. "Please don't stop." He pressed forward again, even slower this time and suddenly every nerve in her entire body was singing because she was so damn full and so damn open and for the first time since they'd murdered her father, something inside her felt _whole_. So full, so full and so good and so fucking big and his arms were sliding around her shoulders and dragging her face up to his and he was kissing her. It was wet and messy and clumsy and she returned it with all the unpractised eagerness she could before she broke off with a yelp of surprise.He was lifting her, he was still inside her and lifting her to sit astride his thighs and one of his big hands was gripping her hip in a tight hold that said _safe_. He was tugging at her hip she realised, even as she wound one arm around his neck to keep her balance. She let him move her hips, found that doing it this way made her toes curl and her body sing and oh dear Gods she was going to burst because it felt so good and she was so full as she moved her hips back and forth on him and he grunted his pleasure out as his hands left her hips to let her move and went to her hair.

 

The kisses were getting more passionate, both of them were grasping at whatever they could reach - shoulders, hair, her waist, his biceps, and suddenly he had a hold of her hips and she could feel that edge again, she was damn close and he was stilling her hips and he was taking over now, thrusting into her as she sobbed with the joy. He shoved a hand between them, she felt him fumble for a moment before he touched _something_ and she howled like a wolf as her toes curled so tightly her feet cramped into pain and everything burst into white. She was only vaguely aware of him grabbing her waist in a grip that probably should have hurt her if she'd had any of her senses.

 

When she came back to herself, she was still on his lap and so very empty. His face was hidden in her neck, her head was resting on his shoulder with her forehead on his neck - right on his scars. It was an impulse that made her kiss them, kiss a trail over his ruined cheek and temple before he moved. She had feared he would shove her off and storm away again, like he had in the woods but he did not. He just held her, held her until her thighs cramped and she had to move - and even then he lay with her, his arms tight around her while she smiled into his chest and let her legs stop quaking. It was only when he shifted that she realised how late in the day it had to be.

                "Do we have to go?" she asked.

                "Yes, wolf girl. We have to go."

 

It would happen again, again and again until sometimes all it took to start it was a look from one of them and it was done, he would stride towards her to throw her against a tree or they'd roll together in the dark besidea little fire.

 

And then the day came when they stumbled on Rorge and even bleeding and battered he managed to remember her.

                "Is he on your little list?"

                "He can't be. I never knew his name."

                "What's your name?" And the fucker had _smirked_ before he answered and she'd stabbed him quick and deep and watched him die at her feet.He'd stepped up behind her to drag her close.

                "Why do you always let them drown in their own blood?"

                "Because it's slow."

 

That day they'd nearly torn each other to shreds when she wanted to cauterise his wounds and he'd screamed _no fire_ and she'd backed off in the face of his rage. She was truly afraid of him for the first time ever because for a moment, for one heartbeat of a moment, she had seen the murder in his eyes, seen the anger there and she had known that if she pushed it, he would kill her. And all she could do was wash the bite with boiling wine and clean it the best she could with whatever they had available. He'd woken her the next morning with his head between her thighs and she'd woken wrapped in pleasure and already on the edge of orgasm and he'd just looked up at her when he was done with a smirk.

 

And then it was all over.

 

She was looking at his broken body and he was begging her for death while she crouched silent beside him. She couldn't speak or move or do anything because she was so terrified that if she did she'd cry. And in the end she had just run away, run across the seas to Jaqen and the Faceless Men while his shouted pleas rang in her ears every single day. Every single day she ran over the thousand things she should have said to him and the thousand things she should have done - and every single day, the guilt stole another piece of her until she was hollow inside.

 

She'd turned her back on the Faceless Men too, because she couldn't forget and couldn't move past it all. Every time he was mentioned they caught her lie that she had hated him. Every time she thought of him, she found her fists clenching and her eyes burning. And she'd left because when she murdered Meryn Trant and his blood had soaked her shift, the one person she wanted to describe it to just wasn't _there_.

 

So she came back home and slit Walter Frey's miserable throat for breaking guest right and allowing her brother to be butchered under his roof, then poisoned all of his sons for good measure. She rode back to Winterfell and killed Petyr Baelish too, for selling her sister to monsters and betraying her father and committing innumerable crimes against her family. She fought with Brienne and got better and better until she was beating her again and again. Then Brienne rode away so she had nobody to fight and it was then that the memories caught up with her. She started going to the Godswood again although it was never to pray. She went to the Godswood to speak to him. She told him all about her training and Meryn Trant - _I told you I was going to kill him_ \- and about how they had taken her sight in punishment. She told him about not killing Lady Crane - _a man's got to have a code_ \- and about how she'd nearly died. And during those long conversations with a dead man, she had come to realise the most heart-breaking thing of all - that she had loved him and that the hollow inside her had the name _Sandor Clegane._

_And so it was that when Brienne rode back from the Dragonpit, with her brother and the Dragon Queen, she was hiding in the crypts. And so it was that he found her there and for a moment, she thought she was looking at a ghost. And so it was that she could have happily sworn in front of every Septon in the land that she had not meant to look for him. She would have placed her hand on any altar of the New Gods they chose and sworn blind she had not intended to see him. She would have knelt in front of a Heart Tree and sworn to every nameless Old God that she had not gone looking for him - and it would have been true. Because in the end, it was he who had come looking for her._


End file.
